Of the bronze figures in a nearby park

One I have always seen in a special way

A way that has changed as I have grow older

Others I have watched, young to old, must feel much the same

It is the statue of a lovely woman, standing, full life size

One dares to say she is of average form

For tastes in what defines the beauty of a woman have changed

From Rubenesque, to too skinny, back to Rubenesque

To my eye, though, she has the perfect form

Perhaps enhanced by the artist’s skills in changing subtle things

Slight changes in proportion, perhaps, to express desired emotion

Or to express an eagerness to move forward, or move on

But enough of that, one needs only know that her breasts are bare

Beautiful too to my adult eye, but that is not the point

When I first saw them in my early teenage years

They were only breasts, defined no further except as large or small

At that age, of course, my experiences with women’s breasts were few

And the words we used, boobs, knockers, tits, added nothing

Nude pictures back then were not so common, not to me at least

And, without a third dimension, lacked the reality my mind sought

But in the park was a statue, that’s what they look like, an older boy said

And so I sought her out and waited till no one else was there

Then stood quite close and looked and found them pleasing

I looked around again, saw no one, and reached out and touched them

I was clearly not the first to have done that

Her bronze nipples were polished now to a lovely golden color

As were the rounded bottoms of her breasts as if cupped in many hands

Thinking long to gain my courage, I touched each nipple with my tongue

This was a dangerous thing to do, of course, what if someone saw me

And not just that, by that time my body had reacted to my thoughts

A not quite new sensation, that bulging in my trousers

But one I thought vaguely must be wrong somehow

That was more than fifty years ago, how naive we all were at that age

But men never quite outgrow their fascination with women’s breasts

There is a mystery to them that never goes away

I guess that is planted firmly in our genes

I sit sometimes to watch those walking past that stature

The younger seem embarrassed and avert their gaze

The older only give a glance and only rarely stop to stare

Or glance at the young woman by their side and mentally compare

But still older men, like me, they are in no hurry

They often stand in front of her for some time, looking at her breasts

Their thoughts may well be just like mine

Their wives, old as they, once had breasts that looked like hers